“In the same house?” asked Prudence, laughing.
“No, at Point du Jour, where we had dinner, the duke and I. While he was admiring the view, I asked Mme. Arnould (she is called Mme. Arnould, isn’t she?) if there were any suitable rooms, and she showed me just the very thing: salon, anteroom, and bed-room, at sixty francs a month; the whole place furnished in a way to divert a hypochondriac. I took it. Was I right?” I flung my arms around her neck and kissed her.
“It will be charming,” she continued. “You have the key of the little door, and I have promised the duke the key of the front door, which he will not take, because he will come during the day when he comes. I think, between ourselves, that he is enchanted with a caprice which will keep me out of Paris for a time, and so silence the objections of his family. However, he has asked me how I, loving Paris as I do, could make up my mind to bury myself in the country. I told him that I was ill, and that I wanted rest. He seemed to have some difficulty in believing me. The poor old man is always on the watch. We must take every precaution, my dear Armand, for he will have me watched while I am there; and it isn’t only the question of his taking a house for me, but he has my debts to pay, and unluckily I have plenty. Does all that suit you?”
“Yes,” I answered, trying to quiet the scruples which this way of living awoke in me from time to time.
“We went all over the house, and we shall have everything perfect. The duke is going to look after every single thing. Ah, my dear,” she added, kissing me, “you’re in luck; it’s a millionaire who makes your bed for you.”
“And when shall you move into the house?” inquired Prudence.
“As soon as possible.”
“Will you take your horses and carriage?”
“I shall take the whole house, and you can look after my place while I am away.”
A week later Marguerite was settled in her country house, and I was installed at Point du Jour.